Reborn from the Ashes
by FrankieSunflower
Summary: Modern AU, set in England. Valjean/Javert. Javert, after being rescued from the Thames, has amnesia and Valjean decides not to tell him the truth.
1. Chapter 1

'Welcome back to channel X24.601, and we are live at …'

Valjean was off his chair and slamming his hand flat on the radio off button in less than a second. He glanced at Javert, who sat bolt upright in his bed. Valjean couldn't tell it was the number or the sound of him hitting the radio that had startled Javert. He desperately hoped it was the latter.

'Sleep well?' he asked, perhaps a little breathlessly.

'Yes,' Javert said warily. He sounded like a man who had just been asked a very confusing question. But he had been looking like that a lot lately. At least, since he woke up.

Valjean had grappled with the truth of Javert and their history since he'd first gone with him to the hospital. It was new, and discomfiting, having an irreconcilable problem with the inspector's identity, rather than with his own. It felt wrong. Like they were wearing each other's shoes, despite having differently sized feet.

They were not in Cardiff, so Javert was not known here. Valjean, out of frightened habit, had not alerted the authorities that the inspector was in a hospital in London. For all Valjean knew, his co-workers were looking for him. It had been three weeks. Of course they must be. His mind had been a muddle when he pulled Javert from the Thames, filled with indescribable panic. The sight of Javert face-down in the water had set a fire in his brain that could only be doused by leaping into the cold dark, dragging him to the shoreline and spending five minutes trying to resuscitate him while a concerned lady in a parka dialled emergency services.

He ought to have left him when the ambulance arrived. Vanished, the way he always had before. Things would be simpler, better, for both of them.

But he hadn't. When the paramedics had seen him clutching Javert's spasming, coughing, soaked body, and assumed he was Javert's lover, he hadn't corrected them. He had lied to the hospital, and taken Javert home to his apartment. He had lied to Javert.

What would happen when Javert's memory returned? He would not thank Valjean. He would be outraged. What if Valjean woke up one night to Javert, humiliated and angry, holding a knife to his throat? What if something he said or did, something about his profile or the way he sliced bread for toast in the morning, what if it sparked a fire in Javert's mind and brought his memories flooding back?

But Valjean was the only one who could do that, and he knew it. Valjean had been one of the few notable certainties in Javert's life. That was not pride. It was common sense.

Javert could have gone home to his own flat, unmarried, no children to watch over him. It would be convenient for the higher ups, Javert being an older member of the force, having attempted suicide and wound up with amnesia, to forcibly retire him and put him on a pension. For Valjean to send Javert back to Cardiff and have that happen would only ensure his worst possible fate. That was what he told himself.

Valjean knew Javert would not see it that way, even if his memories did return. Valjean tried not to hope that Javert would not remember, that he would simply stay reset. It was selfish. No matter how much he told himself that it would be better for Javert not to remember at all, for him instead to start a new life, a blank slate, Valjean knew his own motives too well.

So he carried on, letting Javert sleep in his bed while he laid out a futon for himself in the study and stared at the ceiling, grappling with guilt. He silently listened in the afternoons, as Javert tried to piece together scraps of images and sounds that flew through his mind like elusive dreams; a red flag, buttons on a uniform, a penknife cutting through nylon rope. A black and silver cross on a chain, which Valjean had found around his neck after dragging him from the water, making his heart plummet in an indescribable moment of both misery and happiness. Valjean had tentatively shown him the cross, which he had taken back, and Javert had haltingly asked if he could wear it again.

'I gave it to you,' Valjean had said. 'Years ago.'

'I wish I could remember,' Javert had replied quietly.

_No, you don't. I don't want you to_, Valjean hadn't said.

Valjean hoped Javert did not notice that he was hiding. He wasn't locking himself in at all hours, nor was he actively stopping Javert from leaving the house or watching television or having contact with the outside world. Javert voluntarily stayed at the apartment, reading Valjean's Paul Coelho books and eating his peanut butter, all with a stiffness and curiosity that belied both his current confusion and his life spent as an arm of the law. The Paul Coelho books he seemed to like. The Eckhart Tolle books irritated him, and he hadn't touched any of the Alain de Botton. The sight of a well-thumbed Bible on the bed stand had made him raise an eyebrow at Valjean.

Valjean returned from grocery shopping in the first afternoon of the fourth week to find Javert rolling up the futon in the study. He protested, and Javert looked at him with a combination of blankness and sternness.

'It can't be as comfortable as a real bed,' he said flatly. 'You should be sleeping in your bed.'

'_You_ are sleeping in my bed,' Valjean had reminded him, and the resulting impatient eye-roll from Javert.

'Maybe it would … help me.'

'Help?'

'Having you next to me,' Javert said. There it was again, that officious stiffness. It was clearly a thought, an idea, which Javert had been grappling with for some time.

'It won't work,' Valjean said doubtfully. He painfully wanted to confess there and then, _it won't work because we aren't a real couple, because you and I have never slept side by side, we have never touched more than to punch, kick, hurt each other_.

But he couldn't say it. His mouth went dry.

'I trust you not to do anything unseemly,' Javert said, the corner of his lip twitching, and Valjean was surprised at the rush of want that surged to the surface at that. He had never been the recipient of such an expression from Javert before. He had never seen the officer be sarcastic, or offhand, he had never seen him smile. The reaction must have shown in his face, because Javert stepped forward and Valjean felt no desire at all to step back. Javert stood within ten inches of him. He could feel little puffs of air, Javert's breath, and smell his own aftershave on Javert's skin.

'Just sleep next to me.'

Valjean found himself shockingly unable to say no.


	2. Chapter 2

Valjean tried not to contact Cosette or her husband, despite desperately missing her. He couldn't involve her in the bubble of insanity that was his present circumstance. She had just gotten married, for god's sake.

Javert asked once about the photo in Valjean's wallet. The off-angle, out-of-focus beach photograph of Valjean and Cosette, wet-haired and grinning like fools, clearly taken with a disposable camera. The year had been written sloppily in ballpoint on the back of the photo. Valjean had told Javert that she was his adopted daughter. Javert didn't ask why he wasn't in the photo as well, despite Valjean having also told him how long they had known each other, and surely Javert was smart enough to compare the dates in his head.

He was also smart enough to see how uncomfortable Valjean was those first two nights, lying flat on his back as far from Javert as possible, even though this usually ended in falling off the side of the bed in the morning. At first he had silently tolerated Valjean's treatment of the blankets as something being forced on him, until the third night. On the third night, fed up, Javert swung his arm over Valjean's waist and wrestled him into the middle of the king-sized bed. Valjean had put up a fight, demanded to be let go, but strong as he was "for a man of his age" (Javert had grunted it, paused, and for one terrified moment Valjean was deathly sure he'd remembered) Javert was strong too, and he managed to pin Valjean to the mattress. Valjean was ready to keep kicking, but Javert had let out a breathless laugh, and in an instant Valjean was pinned, not by his arms and legs, but by a feeling unlike anything earthly. Javert was _laughing_. His body, matching Valjean's in strength and sized, was briefly wracked by spasms in breath, mirth, a kind of happiness.

Javert was _happy_.

Valjean slowly relaxed, letting his hands loosen and the tension seep out of his limbs, his back and neck. Javert, in response, released his hold and tentatively rested his head on Valjean's shoulder, left his arms around Valjean's waist and rearranged his legs.

Valjean had woken early the following day, comfortably hot and pressed and irresistibly, mournfully peaceful, feeling Javert's steady breathing.

He had known love when God had come to him in the form of a man of the church. He had known love when hope had come to him in the form of Cosette. A feeling, similar but dangerously overpowering, was seeping into him now through the warmth and terror that was Javert. But it surely couldn't be love, because this was Javert.

Or maybe, it could be love, because it was Javert. Maybe this was his ultimate test. Not loving the man who had been so brutal, chased him so relentlessly, but being honest with him. Maybe this was the final challenge to his precious soul. If he kept lying to Javert, things could only end in the worst possible way. Especially now.

There was no way Valjean could have Javert. Not the way he wanted.

He had to tell him the truth.

.

Valjean waited until later in the morning, after breakfast, and every glimpse of Javert's hooded grey eyes and every silent acknowledgement, in the hallway as Javert left the bathroom without his shirt on and Valjean went in to brush his teeth, in the kitchen while Javert made toast and Valjean checked the fridge to see if there were any eggs left. The air was full of unsaid words that Valjean didn't know how to put together.

Then, as always, Javert butt in with his invasive abrupt lack of timing and took Valjean's chance away.

'There's this feeling I have,' he said haltingly. 'I want to put a voice to it. I don't know if I would ever say this, with my memories intact.'

'Then don't say it at all,' Valjean said quickly. 'Whatever it is, maybe you're not ready to say it.'

'Maybe it needs to be said,' Javert replied. 'Never mind telling you when, if, my memories come back. I want to tell you now, how I feel. It could be important.'

Valjean, exasperated, ran a hand through his hair and turned to face the ground. Before he could lift his head again, he felt something warm in his hand. It was Javert's. And, all too soon, Javert was standing inches away, and no amount of forgetfulness or amnesia could take away the confrontation in his stance, the way his chest puffed out all by itself. Once again, Valjean was completely unable to step back. He looked up. Valjean wanted to forget too. He wanted to forget that this was supposed to be a lie.

Supposed to be.

'I feel like there's a gaping chasm between us,' he said in a soft rumble. The closeness was enough to warrant the lowering of Javert's voice, and even while the words drove spikes through Valjean's brain, that voice, intimate, deep, made him alarmingly weak at the knees. 'I have tried to tell myself it's because of the amnesia. But I cannot shake the feeling that I've never quite possessed you. Not properly. Even as close as this –' and Javert punctuated the sentence by pressing his body against Valjean, crowding him back against the wall and taking hold of both his hands, entwining their fingers and leaving barely a hair's breadth between them, 'even as close as this, you're miles away from me. Completely beyond my reach.'

_Oh, if only you knew_, Valjean wanted to say. _It's the very nature of our relationship. Our real relationship. The one I need to find a way to tell you about_.

Javert pressed his lips to Valjean's neck, making his heart jump. But he didn't push Javert away. He could have twisted free, wrenched his hands free of Javert's, retreated. Said he didn't want to do anything while Javert wasn't fully himself. But the words wouldn't come, and even if they did they would sound insincere. If only Javert knew. If only Javert knew, all those years, that all he had to do to chain Valjean and leave him incapable of escape was to press a simple kiss to his bare throat. As soft and simple as skin on skin. As effective as a wolf snapping its jaws down on a young elk's neck.

Valjean let slip a shaky sigh, and Javert slid his mouth up to his jaw, to nibble his ear. It was absurdly sweet, innocent even, completely unlike the officer, unlike the prison guard. But Javert had cuddled him the night before, instigated every affectionate touch they had shared.

_Because he doesn't know the truth_, Valjean reminded himself. _This is a lie and you shouldn't be letting it go so far_.

He retrieved his hands and put them to Javert's chest, pushing gently, until there was a space of several inches between them. He was surprised to feel the heaviness of his own breathing. All because of a kiss, and a nibble. Valjean hadn't been with anyone in such a long time, he reminded himself. But then, this was Javert, and foolish Javert who was so sure even now that Valjean was "beyond his reach" had officially succeeded in imprisoning Valjean, in one moment of lowered guard.

It would kill him to lose Javert. But continuing to lie would only ensure a slow death.

'You must let me speak,' Valjean insisted, and Javert, impatiently patient, lowered his chin and looked at Valjean from under his eyebrows as if to say, "really? Are you serious?". Valjean cleared his throat.

'I have something to which I must confess.'


	3. Chapter 3

They wound up in the bedroom when Javert tried to wander off and dismiss Valjean with a wave of his hand, but Valjean persevered, until Javert stood with his back to the bed and his arms crossed. Valjean had tried to tell Javert to sit down, but that had just earned him a reprimanding declaration that Javert was a grown man, and bad news was bad news whether it was told standing up or sitting down.

So Valjean had begun, slightly jumbled, but more coherent as he went, to explain himself. He tried to do so as fully as he could manage, under that overpowering stare. It wasn't easy.

Valjean did not know what was worse. Javert's face gave away no hints, no suggestion of feeling. It was blank. He listened, and Valjean wondered if maybe he should have sat down himself, before he fell down.

He reached the part where he had found Javert face-down in the Thames, seeing the back of his head, the familiar body shape and thinking "surely not …", and then the hospital. And the decision to take him home. He kept it simple. Hearing himself, he winced. He had basically kidnapped an unsuspecting police officer, out of fear of what would happen if he didn't. It was intended to be a helpful intervention. It sounded unforgivable said out loud. It sounded ludicrous.

Javert did not move, or say a word, and Valjean shifted his weight from foot to foot, standing in the bedroom doorway and feeling like a child about to get a smack.

Then, Javert spoke. Deadpan and concise. It was the voice of a man who had not spoken in years.

'So you finally decide to come out with it. And all of it, no less.'

'I have _tried _to be an honest man,' Valjean protested.

'You are rough, and you are bumbling, and you do try. But it is hard for a man like you to be honest. Circumstance rarely allows it,' Javert said sternly, but tiredly. Then he lowered his eyes, and fell back to sit on the bed. Valjean stood still in the doorway, feeling the walls fall around him, and waiting for the other boot to drop.

Javert gestured to the bed beside him.

'Sit down, you idiot. I'm not about to deck you.'

'You have every right in the world,' Valjean said.

'Only you could manage to be smug and guilty at the same time,' Javert muttered. 'Like you're proud of yourself for wanting to be punished. I suppose I can empathise with that.'

Valjean started at that, puzzled. Javert looked up at Valjean from under his brow, meaningfully.

'I'm as guilty as you, 24601. Now come over here and sit down, for god's sake.'

Valjean tentatively approached, and sat two feet away on the edge of the bed, facing the figure who now sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped before him.

'What you said … about feeling as if there was a distance between us?'

'I had to find a way to put it into words without the memories getting in the way,' Javert said haltingly. 'Without who we are … who we _were_ … getting in the way.'

'We still are who we were.'

'Don't be a wanker. I was trying to communicate things slowly, and then you had to go ahead and open the floodgates.'

Javert look disapprovingly at Valjean, and Valjean tried not to cringe. He was bewildered. Javert knew? Did he remember when Valjean was gone one day, or did he never really have amnesia? He didn't dare ask.

'So many things out of my control have changed. I wanted to be able to control this, so I could change it for the better. You've had your say. Let me have mine.'

Valjean shut his mouth before any words could escape. The overwhelming desire to kick and shout nearly drove him to stand up again and do just that, to shriek, _you knew, you remembered? How long? How long have I been made to prove myself a conniving, villainous, weak-hearted man by lying to you?_ But it quickly sunk away through the guilt that came of knowing that he had, indeed, been proven a liar, and was replaced by a desire to place his hand on Javert's shoulder.

'I was not made for domesticity,' Javert said slowly. 'I was made for stone walls and iron bars, and a strict regime. Laws that could not, not under any circumstances, be broken. There was never any excuse for weakness or rule-breaking. My morals and my ethics were always so clear-cut. It was the only way I could live.'

Valjean had known all this on some unspoken level, but hearing Javert talk this way about himself, especially in such a derogatory yet nostalgic tone, made him uncomfortable.

'When you saved my life, after taking me from that ramshackle barricade, when you freed me, and when you turned your back on my gun to carry away that wounded boy, do you know how that shook me? I was so sure that you were a common criminal. You were a thief. You ran from justice. You lied about your identity. You kidnapped a child. I didn't know how to see you as anything less than a demon.'

Valjean knew that Javert hadn't finished and he waited patiently, but his chest was starting to hurt. He had known that Javert hated him, but hearing it in such visceral detail filled his head and heart with a painful greyness. And now, after this terrible lie. If nothing else, Valjean had officially cemented his place as irretrievably evil in Javert's mind.

'I could never really pin down the feeling, though. The thoughts I had about you, those were simple. I _thought_ you were an untrustworthy, selfish vagrant. But I _felt_ you were … I don't know. I still don't. After all this time. Isn't that ridiculous? You were always so frustrating, on so many levels. You did not just spare my life. You saved it. Even though it would have solved your problems just to turn aside and let them shoot me. You didn't even have to get your hands dirty.'

'You were only doing your duty.'

'That is no excuse,' Javert said sharply. Then, his eyes trained firm and wide on the edge of the bed, he whispered it again. 'No excuse, at all. Everything's been torn down, for me. I don't know what the rules are any more.'

'You are the same man,' Valjean said gently. 'I have never thought of you as a man who could be remade into something else.'

'In all honesty, I'd hoped that might not be true,' Javert said dully. 'All of my rules are gone. Between the two faces I saw on you, the one that fit my tenuous, brittle reasoning has proven to be a lie. I cannot accept both masks, not both at once. And you are _still _frustrating, you know. We could have avoided this whole discussion. You could have kept me here, ignorant for all intents and purposes. I'd have played the fool and kept you warm at night. At the hospital, I was faced with a choice. So were you,' Javert said, and this time he faced Valjean completely, turning to clutch both of Valjean's hands in his. His voice didn't waver, and neither did his gaze. But somehow, the hesitance showed. Javert had never said anything like this before, and it was plain somehow in his directness.

'One world, or another. We both chose the same one. If I must decide between what I have believed all my life, and believing you, the only decision I can make is to believe you. And I never, Jean Valjean … I _never _knowingly make the wrong choice.'

It was as if he was pleading for Valjean to understand. And, more or less, Valjean understood. One final inner wall of conflict arose; Javert was vulnerable, he was clearly troubled, he had attempted suicide for god's sake, and the kind and decent thing to do would be to give him time to heal, to come to terms with everything and make an informed and level-headed decision.

But, the inner wall of conflict was badly and haphazardly erected against the wave of emotion that had been building for weeks. And Javert knew. He had known all along. He had willingly, and with full comprehension, gone along with Valjean's charade.

Because he had wanted to.

He wanted this. He wanted Valjean, and not behind bars, but standing beside him. And he had just confessed, in the only way he knew how.

Valjean collapsed forward into Javert's arms, and felt them loop around him, the weight of Javert's cheek on top of his head, hands bunching in his shirt, and he heard Javert's heartbeat hammer against his ribs. His resolve crumbled into the sea that swept away all coherent thought and utterly flooded his heart with a passion that had, all his life, gone unnamed and unacted upon.

Valjean lifted his face and pressed random kisses up and down the first expanse of bare skin he met, which extended up from the top of Javert's chest and up just under his chin, earning what sounded blessedly like a relieved sigh. It was relief, every kiss, the close contact. Sweeter than freedom.

'Does this mean we can drop the subject?' Javert asked. Valjean finally reached his mouth, and sealed it shut with a long, silent kiss.

When their mouths parted, they were laying on the bed on their sides, facing each other, Valjean's hand on the side of Javert's face and Javert's arms still around Valjean's waist.

'Do you still feel a distance between us?' Valjean whispered. Javert snorted, and pressed his nose to Valjean's.

'No. I can see you good and close from here.'


End file.
